


metronome

by JemDoe



Category: Original Work, Russian Royalty RPF
Genre: F/F, Gen, baba yaga cameo!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 23:18:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17293286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JemDoe/pseuds/JemDoe
Summary: It starts with a painting.





	metronome

**Author's Note:**

> im not 100% satisfied w this but if i dont post it im gonna keep fiddling w it forever so Here We Go. part original fiction part russian royalty rpf we got everyfuvkingthing

It starts with a painting. It isn’t anything special, but it is making rounds, being popular, depicting a scene of four kids and a dog running in a field, a palace far off in the background. Xenia is sure that the artist enjoys their popularity, but she cannot shake off the thought that, whohever the painter is, it is one of her brother’s children, because she recognizes the children and she recognizes the palace. The girl running at the forefront is Anastasia, carrying a big stick, Tatiana, Maria and Olga behind her, Jimmy on their heels. In the background, Livadia sprawled over the hills. The signature is a loopy, lazy  _A. Nicholas._

Her sister Olga had brought the painting to her attention, saying it looked familiar, but it was Xenia who connected the dots. There was no way she wouldn’t recognize her nieces or Livadia.

Xenia lowered her eyes down from the painting, and looked at Olga.

“Where did you get this?” She asked, and Olga drank her tea quietly, for a mere second, before setting the cup down. “I’d love to talk with the artist.”

Logically, Xenia knows that her nieces and nephew are dead. Emotionally, it’s been six years and she’s had no closure. There’s hope, lingering in her chest like a flame that refuses to be put out, that at least oneof the kids survived, but Xenia refuses to put a name on which kid - what if it’s another? What if it’s not true? What if...

“Oh, a friend sent me it.” Olga picks up her tea and drinks one more sip. “Said they grabbed it in Paris. The artist, he was told, was a very bitter person.”

“He didn’t meet the artist?” Xenia signalized that the painting is put away, and focused back on Olga.

“No. Apparently, whoever it is is very reclusive.” One more sip of tea, one more biscuit. Xenia waited. “But it’s curious, isn’t it? Looks almost like the artist knew Livadia.”

Olga had always been the type of smart and quiet, hadn’t she?

“A little,” Xenia replied, and sipped her own tea. “Let me know if you get your hands in more of these.”

Olga smiled, cat-like, and they dropped the subject.

* * *

The subject of the painting does not leave Xenia alone, and she spends a good while staring at the running figures. They do resemble her dear nieces, and the scene...

It takes half a year to put another painting of A. Nicholas in Xenia’s hands, and this one is a scene that no one outside Tsarkoe Selo could’ve seen: Tatiana, sitting by the side of Alix, sewing. Ortino, by their feet, slept peacefully. Outside the mauve room, a snowy scene, and in the corner, the same lazy signature.

Olga stares at her quietly, and nods. They both know, for certain, that whoever this artist is, it is one of her nieces.

The question is - which? If, if, if. Which of her four nieces saw the death of her siblings? And, most importantly, why hadn’t she reached out? She had family outside her siblings and parents, so why…?

“I  _will_ find her,” Xenia said, staring at the painting. Olga looked at her, quiet, for a moment. She was thinking something, and Xenia could see it, but she didn’t have the courage to speak up.

“Maybe she  _doesn’t_ want to be found, Xenia,” Olga said, soft and quiet, and Xenia glared at her. What silly idea, that one of her nieces didn’t want to find her. “Maybe she…”

“No maybes.”

* * *

A detective finds Anna Nicholas, artistic pseudonym A.  _Nicholas_ , right on the left bank of the Seine, leading a bohemian life of debauchery. A month more gives Xenia her address and an appointment under the false pretense of commissioning a portrait, and soon before she knew it, Xenia and Olga stood before an oaken door with smatterings of paint on it, the smell of acrid smoke hanging heavy in the air.

Xenia stepped forward and knocked, and a lazy voice in french told them to wait a moment. They heard steps on the other side of the door, and a girl opened the door, half-naked and smelling like cheap absinthe. This girl had bright red hair and tanned, freckled skin, and wasn’t any of her nieces. Thank God.

“You must be the madams that commissioned Anna?” She yawned, covering her mouth with one hand, letting the shirt she was wearing fall off her shoulder, exposing more of her skin. Xenia spoke nothing, and Olga averted her eyes, polite. “Come in, come in. Just give her a moment to get everything ready.”

“Thank you.” Olga said, as the girl sauntered inside, rising up a set of stairs. The apartment was small and cramped, each visible surface with a splash of paint. Olga sat on the couch, and Xenia closed the door behind her, scrutinizing the place, trying to place which of her nieces would allow herself to live in such filth. She  _refused_ to entertain the mere notion that her nieces could change so much this ambient would be acceptable.

The redhead girl from before came down the stairs, dressed in a flapper dress, as if she was going for a night out, adjusting her hat on her head.

“Anna will see you now, just go upstairs.” She waved at them, not even looking, picking up a purse from seemingly thin air, and making her way out before both of them could react.

Olga rose up first, going to the stairs, and put one foot on the creaky step before she turned to face Xenia.

“Shall we go? No point in delaying this.”

Xenia nodded, and she went after her sister, rising up the stairs until they reached a small darkened hallway, two doors closed and one open. The two sisters looked at each other and went for the open door at the end of the corridor, finding a surprisingly clean space, paint dotting the floor covered by a white sheet, a blank canvas on an easel. On the front of it, a high chair, velvet and too fancy to be there, but splattered with paint.

In the center of the room, however, was a girl with short, masculine hair and male clothes, an apron tied at her waist, eyes focused on a palette, mixing colors with clear, focused eyes. A scar snaked over the left half of her face, but both Xenia and Olga knew it: Anna Nicholas was Anastasia.

“The madams can decide which position they’d like to be painted.” Anastasia’s clear voice said, not looking at them, still too focused on the colors. “The chair is just a suggestion, but if you’d like I can bring out another.”

“ _Malenkaya_?” Olga’s voice was a sniffle, and it made Anastasia freeze, looking up to them. Yes, it was most definitely their niece, wearing male clothes and hairstyle, scarred but still the little girl they knew. Olga took her scared eyes as confirmation, and flew to her arms. “Oh, Anastasia, you…”

“Get off me, aunt Olga.” Anastasia said, changing from the french she was using to the russian the three shared, and got away from Olga’s arms. She limped, relying too much in her right leg, as well. She paused, as if she was listening in, and only after silence greeted her she spoke again. “I’m not Anastasia anymore.”

Xenia rolled her eyes at this, approaching one step closer to her dejected-looking sister. She  _really_ didn’t have time for Anastasia’s late teenage rebellion.

“Of course you are, dear. You’re still the child of my brother, aren’t you?” Xenia tutted, and Anastasia glared at her. “Let go of this childishness. Come with us.”

“No. Anastasia is dead, like the rest of her family. I am Anna Nicholas.”

This didn’t bode well for the fate of her brother, sister in law and nephews, so Xenia carefully ignored it.

“If she’s dead, then, how are you here?” Crossing her arms, Xenia waited for an answer. She wanted to know why, of all of her brother’s children,  _her_. Tatiana would’ve been a fine addition to the polite society they frequented, and Olga would’ve been a lovely companion to the political circles. Maria, meanwhile, would’ve been the perfect wife to some prince or another.

Anastasia… Anastasia wasn’t exactly a good addiction, not in the state she was, dirty with paint, scarred and limping and with that haircut of hers, living with a woman and reeking of sex. Scandalous.

Anastasia did not reply, simply looking at them with quiet, familiar eyes.

“I am not Anastasia. If that’s all you two have come for, instead of getting yourselves painted, please get out of my apartment.” Her voice was level and calm, and Xenia huffed. “Don’t make me throw you out, aunt Xenia, because I will.”

As if.

“ _Malenkaya…_ ” Started Olga, reaching a hand to Anastasia, quietly. Anastasia stepped away, biting her lower lip, and Olga looked at Xenia, looking back at Anastasia, a silent conversation happening between the two. They always had been close. “Xenia, can you leave?”

Fine by her. She did as asked, not bothering to look behind.

* * *

Aunt Olga at least had the decency to wait until she heard the door closing downstairs to speak again, Anastasia had to give her that. They both knew she wouldn’t talk with aunt Xenia present.

She never liked aunt Xenia all that much. Too stiff, in Anastasia’s humble opinion.

“I assume you want to go by Anna, now?” Aunt Olga said, sitting in the chair, and Anastasia looked at her. “Well, I’d love to have a memento of my niece. Would you paint your dear aunt and talk to her for a while, Anna?”

Anastasia nodded, quietly, grabbing her set of charcoals and starting to sketch. Aunt Olga’s face was exactly as she remembered her being.

“So, I assume Nicky is dead.”

“Yes, father was shot in the face.”

“Quite sad.” A pause, and Anastasia looked at her aunt. She didn’t seem bothered with the fact they had been murdered, and aunt Olga noticed, smiling weakly. “Dear, there are rumors, you know? Mother may pretend they’re false, but in my heart…”

She didn’t finish her phrase, and Anastasia didn’t bother asking her to. Knowing that her own family had accepted her death hurt a little.

“How did you survive,  _malenkaya_?”

She had survived the rain of bullets, that’s how. Anastasia assumed it was thanks to the bodice of jewelry.

Maria had been alive, too, but Maria rose up screaming and got shot, so Anastasia held her breath and played dead until the soldiers dumped the bodies in the forest. She had had a broken leg and her face was bleeding quite badly, a cut stinging half of it, so she expected to stay there and die. At least the rising sun would keep her company in her final moments.

That was the plan, until an old woman appeared, dressed in traditional clothes. It was weird for a woman to be so deep in the forest grounds, but she looked at the pile of bodies and laughed, like a mad witch.

Her mind went straight to the fairytales she enjoyed so much - this could only be Baba Yaga. Why else would an old woman be in the middle of the forest, looking at her with such disgusted eyes? There could be no other reason.

“I see they left one alive. Constantin, help your mother.” She said, not even bothering to wipe off the boredom off her voice, and a man surged from the shadows, well dressed, white hair shining in the early morning sun. Her loopy, pain-addled mind couldn’t help but think that was Day.

Day grabbed her quietly, carrying her like a sack of potatoes, and Baba Yaga made a single noise for her to keep quiet. Anastasia obeyed, because, well, she didn’t want to bring back the soldiers. She didn’t want to get shot like Maria, didn’t want her brain decorating the forest floor.

They took her to a house that stood tall, in the middle of nowhere, a bone-white fence surrounding it, and Day laid her down in the only flat surface available - a table, relatively clean -, before he disappeared out of the door. Baba Yaga approached her, hands in her back.

“We are not doctors. Your wounds will not heal correctly, if at all. Blink twice if you want me to give you the mercy of a quick death, girl.”

Anastasia held the witch’s gaze, refusing to blink, and she cackled after a long moment of tension.

“Good! You still have some fight in you.” Baba Yaga turned to the back, and Anastasia saw the glimpse of a door and a huge oven. “Anatoly! Bring in the medical supplies.”

A man with red hair came out of the shadows, and that  _must_ be the Sun. He carried in his arms swathes of herbs and strips of white linen, looking at dirty, bloodied Anastasia before scowling, but said nothing, ignoring her. Anastasia closed her eyes, but Baba Yaga slapped her, suddenly too close.

“No dying in the kitchen table, girl.” She hissed, and Anastasia nodded. She guessed it was good manners.

The Sun had set her bone back in place and closed the wounds she bore, no anesthetics for her - Anastasia fainted pretty quickly into the process -, wrapping it in the linens with herbs to avoid infection. When she woke up, it was night, and a dark haired man looked at her. Baba Yaga and the Sun were nowhere to be seen. He helped her sit up, and put in her hands a wooden bowl of soup.

“Eat.” He said, and he was Night, she knew this. “You have to.”

Anastasia obeyed, and this was her life until her leg was healed - waking up and eating and sleeping and waking up and eating, a revolving cast of Day, Sun and Night being her helpers -, but it made her limp slightly: Sun had said something about the bone not being properly set, or nerve damage, or trauma, but Anastasia did not care enough.

What she did know, however, was that as soon as she was healed, Baba Yaga looked at her.

“Girl.” Baba Yaga never asked her name, and she also had never given that to her. “Out. You are healed. Make your own life.”

Day and Night looked at each other, exasperated, and Baba Yaga said nothing more, turning her back. Anastasia bit her lower lip, and Sun approached, handing her some of his clothes, ratty and mended one too many times.

“There’s a horse outside.” He muttered, quiet, and she looked at him. “And he has a few bags on his saddle. Each bag has what you’ll need.”

“Thank you.” It was the least she could say, but Sun simply shook his head, and she nodded, rising up, and not looking back.

What Sun had said was true; there was a horse, and with it, she made her way to the border, several bags missing at the end of her journey.

She sold the horse and kept the bags to pass through, and then, made her way to Paris. At this point, pretending to be a man had been better, and she kept it up because she quite enjoyed the way the girls looked at her, like she was a handsome prince. Anastasia found out she rather liked being admired, but people usually didn’t admire her anymore after she opened her mouth and a feminine voice came out.

When Anastasia - Anna Nicholas was the name she was going by, in France, pretending to be an English expat - found a home near the Seine, painting people and things to get money for rent, she first found out there was quite the scene for women like her, who liked other women as well, and well, they also quite liked her dressed up like a man and her voice, so she kept up. That was how she met Ginger, one quiet evening, where Anastasia was drinking too bitter coffee, sketching lazily the Seine in front of her.

“Excuse me, sir, I’m on a pinch here, and I really need someone to pretend to be my boyfriend. Would you mind?” The girl with red hair asked, adjusting her hat, looking hurriedly behind her.

“I mean, if you don’t mind having me be a woman, be my guest.” Anastasia replied, and the girl looked at her with some shock.

“Are you kidding me? It’s even better!” She grinned, sitting on the available chair. “Genevieve’s the name, but you can call me Ginger. Now quick, be my boyfriend, there’s a man pestering me.”

Anastasia laughed at that, and that’s how they started their fling. Ginger absolutely adored going out with her to stroll through the streets, not worried in the slightest about men bothering them.

She turned back to the present, and smiled sadly at her aunt.

“Sheer luck, I think.”

Because who would believe Baba Yaga saved her? No, it was probably just some old crone with three grandsons. Magic wasn’t real.

Aunt Olga simply nodded, and when Ginger came back, humming along with some song she probably had heard playing on the streets, her aunt rose up.

“Would you like for me to come back?” She asked in smooth french, smiling quietly, and Anastasia shook her head.

“I think I can get your features right, ma’am.” She replied, polite, just in case Ginger was listening in. She didn’t want anyone else in the know of who she was. “Just write me your address so I can send the painting for you when it’s done.”

“Of course.” Her aunt moved through the room perfectly, scribbling something in a piece of paper that she stuck in Anastasia’s hands. Ginger was in the corridor, bringing in a tray with tea and bread. “And if you need anything, darling, I’ve put my telephone number as well. Don’t hesitate to call.”

This was why she prefered aunt Olga to aunt Xenia: aunt Xenia would’ve simply brought her back to Copenhagen or London or wherever she was and not care, while aunt Olga gave her options. That was nice.

“Of course, ma’am.” She replied, and aunt Olga, with a sad, quiet nod, left the room. Ginger passed by her and made a curious face, but said nothing, going in Anastasia’s atelier and setting the tray down.

Anastasia approached Ginger and kissed her softly, her lover smiling against her mouth for a moment, before they let go, and Anastasia allowed herself to become Anna again. Anna didn’t know russian. Anna was just another English expat.

“That was a pretty well off lady, Anna.” Said Ginger, mewling, almost. “I could just eat her up. Bet she’d give me some pretty expensive jewelry, too.”

Anastasia had to do her best not to let herself slip.

“What, looking for new prey, already, Genevieve? A painter isn’t up to your tastes anymore?” Anastasia replied, and Ginger giggled. “Come on, let’s eat and forget about this lady. It’s just another rich woman wanting to relive the past.”

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t a truth. Anastasia wouldn’t be Anastasia again.

* * *

Xenia waited for Olga in a cafe on the other side of the street, and when her sister came to her, she did not smile.

“What did she say?” Xenia asked, drinking her tea. She had seen the redhead girl pass by, and imagined Olga would come out pretty soon after the redhead went in. She had been right.

Slipping in the chair, Olga said nothing for a long moment, as if chewing down every syllable.

“She’s not her. I’ve heard, however, there’s a woman in Berlin saying she’s Anastasia…”


End file.
